The Photograph Album
by My Dear Professor McGonagall
Summary: Missing moments from all throughout the canon. Let's call it a project to help Your Dear Professor McGonagall with her writer's block. First place in Morning Lilies' Photo Album Competition.
1. The Lupins, 2028

14 June 2028

Victoire sat up in her hospital bed, clenching her jaw and fighting hard not to yell as the contraction passed. She sat back, panting and rubbing her very large belly as Andromeda came hurrying into the room.

"All right, dear, you're doing very well," she said kindly, dabbing Victoire's brow with her handkerchief.

"Where's Teddy got to?" Victoire asked helplessly. "He must have heard by now."

"James said that he and Albus will be along very soon, they were at a training post," Andromeda reminded her. "Your family will be here, too. Your mother just sent a message that she and your father are on their way."

"Remus is with Lily?" Victoire asked.

"They're just outside," Andromeda promised. "I need to let Molly and Arthur know what's happening. Do you want to see him?"

Victoire thought for a moment, taking a deep breath. "Yes," she said, nodding. "Yes, can I?"

Andromeda smiled and walked to the door, waving to someone on the other side to come in as she left. Lily, beaming and carrying Remus, Victoire and Teddy's two-year-old son, walked in.

"Hi, sweetheart," Victoire said breathlessly, holding one arm out for them to come closer.

"Say hi, Mummy," Lily cooed in Remus's ear, bringing him close to the bed. "Hi, Mummy."

"Mumma," Remus said, squirming and holding out his arms for his mother.

"Not right now, baby," Victoire said, taking Remus's chubby little fist and kissing it. "Mummy's a little tired. Is he being good?" she asked Lily.

"Oh, he's always good," Lily said, kissing Remus's fat, pink cheek. She took Victoire's hand. "How are you?"

"I'll be fine when your brothers manage to get my husband back here," Victoire answered, adjusting herself with one hand on her belly and wincing.

"My mum and dad are on their way, too," Lily promised, squeezing her hand.

"Victoire, dear, your parents are here," said Andromeda, reappearing in the doorway with Bill and Fleur half a pace behind her.

"Oh, ma petite," cried her mother, hurrying forward and taking Victoire up in an embrace.

"Oof, Mum—Mum—Maman—s'il vous plait, Maman—" Over her mother's shoulder, Victoire saw her father repressing his laughter.

* * *

><p>"All right, that's ten minutes apart," said Victoire, collapsing back. She looked at her mother. "<em>Where is Teddy?<em>"

"Oh, ma belle," Fleur cooed, stroking Victoire's hair. She looked up at Andromeda, who was watching out the window on the door for any sign of Teddy, James, or Albus.

"He'll be here," Andromeda said faintly, biting her lip. "Oh! Wait, there they—Merlin's beard!" she cried, flinging the door open and running out into the corridor.

"Where—what's happening?" Victoire asked her mother, panicked.

"I—I don't know, petite, one moment," Fleur said, getting up and hurrying to the door, where she clapped her hands over her mouth. "Teddy—"

And to Victoire's great relief, Teddy came barreling into the room. "Vic!" he cried, hurrying around the bed. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

"Ted! Why are you covered in blood?" Victoire asked, slightly hysterical at the sight of Teddy's spattered clothing and red-tinged hands.

"I—oh," Teddy said, looking down. "No, it's not mine—"

"Not the right answer, Lupin," Victoire snarled, clutching her belly as Andromeda, Fleur, and Bill crammed through the door, looking terrified.

"It's Albus's," Teddy explained, trying to calm her down. "But—"

"I beg your pardon?" Victoire explained, tears springing to her eyes as Andromeda and Fleur both clapped their hands over their mouths.

"No, he's all right—Vic, please let me explain," Teddy insisted. "We were trying to leave the training post, and I triggered one of the stealth traps by accident. Albus caught it for me—"

"Where is he?" Victoire asked, starting to cry. "Is he—?"

"He's fine," Teddy promised, kissing her forehead. "I swear to you, he's fine, he's with Harry and Ginny getting patched up now. His leg got badly cut up and he's got a broken ankle, but that's the worst of it."

"Leave it to you to make an entrance," Victoire said, closing her eyes as she felt another contraction coming on. She grit her teeth, taking hold of Teddy's hand. "Don't leave this room," she said, though it was less like an order now than a plea.

"You've got it," Teddy promised, kissing her forehead again.

* * *

><p>"He's perfect, Vic," Teddy said quietly, perched on the edge of the bed beside Victoire as she cradled their newborn son.<p>

Victoire smiled sleepily. "John," she cooed, stroking the baby's cheek. "Sweet boy," she murmured, starting to doze.

Teddy chuckled and kissed her. There was a knock at the door, and he looked up to see Lily peering through the window. He waved at her to come in.

She smiled and hurried inside to stand at the end of the bed. "Albus is out of the treatment room," she whispered. "He's going to be fine, but he wants to see the baby."

"Can he—wait, he can come in here?" Teddy asked incredulously. Lily bit her lip, smiling slightly.

"You'll see," she promised, going back to the door. "All right, come in," she said to the people presumably waiting in the corridor.

"What's going on?" Victoire asked fuzzily, sitting up.

"Al's here to see us," Teddy told her, as through the door came Albus, who was being wheeled in on a stretcher by two Healers, grinning stupidly at Teddy and Victoire as he was pushed into place beside the bed.

"Morning, all," he said amiably, saluting Teddy, who chuckled.

"How are you, Al?" he asked.

Albus looked down at his splinted leg thoughtfully, then back up at Teddy, and gave him a thumbs-up. "Fantastic. How're you, Vic?" he asked, turning his attention to John and Victoire, who was smiling at him.

"I'm just fine," she said, nodding. "I owe you one for getting him back here to me in one piece."

"All in a day's work," Albus mumbled, grinning. He nodded to the baby. "What's his name?"

"John," said Teddy. He looked at Victoire, who nodded, smiling. "John Albus."

"Now what were you thinking, saddling him with a name like that?" Albus joked, his eyes sliding shut.

"Well, he's named after his godfather," Teddy explained.

Albus frowned, lifting his head slightly. "Come again?"

"We want you to be the godfather, Albus," Victoire said. "Will you?"

"I—well—yeah!" Albus said happily. "Yes, I—I would be happy to."

Teddy laughed, standing up and going to Victoire's bag, rummaging for something. "Do you want to hold him?"

"Yeah, I—I do," said Albus, grinning. He pushed himself up on his pillows.

"The camera's in the side pocket, sweetheart," Victoire said to Teddy, sitting up and preparing to hand John over to Albus.

Teddy found it quickly, clicking it once to be sure it was working. Then he looked up at Albus and Victoire. "All right, godfather Al, let's see you with your new godson." Victoire beamed and passed the baby to a positively glowing Albus, as Teddy snapped the picture.

* * *

><p>HI EVERYBODY!<p>

I have something kind of special here: this chunk of stories is called "The Photograph Album." It's based on a bunch of "missing" moments from the stories (or after) and it comes from Morning Lilies' Photo Album Competition. Basically, this is a request-based story. I'll update it whenever you guys give me a suggestion for a moment that was or could have been photographed, i.e., a wedding, a Weasley party-you'll get the idea as we go through these next five little one-shots. All I ask is that your request comes in the form of a description of the photograph, like this: this is prompt for this story: "June 14, 2028 - Victoire handing her new baby off to his godfather, Albus."

Got it? Pretty easy, right?

I've gotten about five of these done, but I'll just leave this story incomplete so long as you keep giving me ideas. SOUND LIKE FUN? You're going to be a huge help, I've had some pretty bad writer's block, so no guarantees that the first five wil be that great. BEAR WITH ME! :)

Love you all!

Lucy


	2. The Black Sisters, 1962

30 December 1962

Andromeda Black sat on the end of her mother's bed with her seven-year-old sister, Narcissa. She tugged her skirt straight, wrinkling her nose at the stiff, dark green material, and looked over to the vanity, where her eldest sister, Bellatrix, was admiring her reflection.

Bellatrix lifted her chin, examining her appearance from all angles, and combed the ends of her long hair once more before adjusting the dark green bow with a haughty smile.

"Bella, _really_, I have to fix Cissy's hair and you're taking too long!" Andromeda said, annoyed.

Bellatrix turned coolly, her chin still high in the air. "Very well, I am finished," she said, in her best imitation of their mother's voice. She put her arms out like a ballerina and swayed gracefully to sit on the bed, careful not to muss her dress.

Andromeda rolled her eyes, leaning back on her elbow as Narcissa scrambled to sit on the stool before the vanity. "I don't know why you're acting like you're the queen," she said. "It's just the New Year's portrait they always make us take."

"Andromeda," Narcissa whined, turning around to face her sisters. "Mummy will be cross."

"I'm not _acting_ like anything," Bellatrix said disparagingly, her dark eyes narrowing as Andromeda stood and picked up the silver comb. "This is my first family portrait since I've been at Hogwarts. I'm in Slytherin now, and I've got to look the part."

Andromeda repressed a snort, combing through Narcissa's hair briefly before starting a long braid.

"What?" Bellatrix demanded angrily.

"Nothing," Andromeda said, looking at her in the mirror. "It's just…you're so…proud…but being in Slytherin doesn't make you that special. Not in this family."

Bellatrix stood, her face flushing red. "Take it back!" she snapped, furious. She took a menacing step forward. "Take it back, Andromeda!"

"Don't shout at her!" said little Narcissa, trying to stand up and face Bellatrix, but Andromeda held her down. She turned and narrowed her eyes at her sister.

"You don't need to get so angry all the time, Bella," she said icily, before turning back to the bow she was tying on the end of Narcissa's braid.

Bellatrix took two huge steps forward and seized a hank of Andromeda's long hair, yanking her head backwards. "Don't tell me what to do," she said angrily. "Now take it back!"

"Fine, then," said Andromeda through clenched teeth. "I take it back. Let me go."

"Not until you mean it," Bellatrix said furiously, pulling her hair harder.

"What is going on here?"

Bellatrix released Andromeda. Their mother stood in the doorway, looking furious. Narcissa hopped off her stool and ran to wrap herself around Druella's leg.

"Nothing, Mother," said Bellatrix, stepping forward and smoothing her dress.

"Bella pulled Andromeda's hair," Narcissa reported, and Bellatrix glared malevolently at her.

"No, Mother, I'm fine—" Andromeda stammered, but Druella cut her off.

"Today, girls? Really, we ask so little of you, and this is how you repay us?" she demanded. "We are all downstairs waiting on _you three_." She took hold of Narcissa's hand, prying her from her leg, and stared despairingly at Andromeda. "Good heavens, girl—at the very least, fix your hair, and Bellatrix—what is wrong with your dress?"

Bellatrix looked down at her dark green dress. "I—I took some of the ribbon off, Mother," she said. "I only—well, I'm at Hogwarts, now. I'm the oldest, and I'm too grown up for ribbons," she added, lifting her chin proudly. Andromeda resisted the urge to scoff.

"Put them back," Druella said briskly. "We spent good money on these dresses for this portrait."

"I'm tired of matching with them!" Bellatrix said, gesturing at her sisters. "They're children!"

Druella took a step closer. "And so are you, so long as you act like that. Put the ribbons back." She looked at Andromeda, who was still standing by the vanity, frozen. "Andromeda, your hair."

Startled out of her reverie, Andromeda picked up the comb and dragged it quickly through her hair, straightening her bow. Bellatrix, grumbling, stomped over to the bureau and picked up the black velvet ribbons she had removed from her dress.

"Downstairs in two minutes, or there will be consequences," Druella said, taking firm hold of Narcissa's hand and leading her from the room.

After the door closed, Andromeda set down the comb, watching Bellatrix's reflection in the mirror.

"I'm sorry, Bella," she said quietly. "You know I don't mean the things I say."

Bellatrix said nothing, but turned and faced the mirror, tugging her dress straight.

Andromeda sighed and faced her. "I hope I'm in Slytherin with you when I get to Hogwarts," she said.

"I know," Bellatrix said airily, flicking her hair back and smoothing her dress. Then she turned and flung open the door before marching out of the room.

Andromeda rolled her eyes and followed Bella down the stairs to the large parlor.

"There they are," said Pollux Black, clapping his hands together as Andromeda and Bellatrix walked in. He stood near his wife's chair, his arms open.

"Hello, Grandfather," said Bellatrix coolly, allowing him to hug her briefly.

Andromeda folded her arms, smiling inwardly. She knew how Bellatrix hated to be petted and admired. Narcissa, on the other hand, was sitting primly in the lap of their grandmother, Irma. She adored the attention she received from her grandparents, and wasn't afraid to show it.

Quite used to being forgotten, as neither the oldest nor the baby of her family, Andromeda looked around the room. All of the furniture had been moved to the window, where there was the most light. A large camera stood on its tripod before the furniture, and the photographer leaned against the bookcase, watching the family lazily.

Andromeda saw her parents sitting near the window; her father cleared his throat and stood.

"It's your turn, girls," he said. "Then we'll take the family portrait."

Narcissa let out a squeal of delight and hurried to seat herself on the edge of the sofa, folding her hands in her lap. Bellatrix joined her.

"Andromeda, did you hear your father?" asked Druella, arching an eyebrow. "Sit down."

Andromeda did as she was told, sitting down in her customary place between Bellatrix and Narcissa.

"No, no, wait a moment," said the photographer, stepping forward and slicking his black moustache with his fingertips thoughtfully. Then he strode to the sofa, reaching for Narcissa. "May I have the dear little blonde girl—here, yes, that's right—the eldest—yes, there, just beside her—and…let's see—well, why don't you stand behind the sofa, miss?" he said to Andromeda. "The light will be more…er…flattering to your features."

Andromeda's heart sank. She blinked rapidly several times, but did as she was told, taking her place behind Bellatrix and Narcissa. Bella turned, smiling nastily.

"Don't worry, Andromeda," she whispered. "Being in the front doesn't make us special. Not in this family." And she faced front, lacing one arm around Narcissa, who was dangling her little legs over the sofa impatiently.

Andromeda gritted her teeth, staring icily out of the window and fighting not to cry.

The photographer was ready, holding up his flash bulb and ducking beneath the cape on the back of the camera. "And, ready, ladies? One, two, three—"

With a cloud of acrid purple smoke, the camera went off, snapping a picture of Bellatrix and Narcissa, beaming sisters posed together, with Andromeda separated from them, her jaw clenched, staring resolutely out of the window.

* * *

><p>I love how much you all responded to this! :) Here we go again! Keep sending ideas!<p>

Lucy


	3. Minerva and Robert McGonagall, 1951

16 August 1951

Minerva served bacon onto five plates her mother had laid out, humming to herself and glancing toward the stairs every now and then. Her youngest brother, Malcolm, sat at the breakfast table with Robert, her father, while Isobel, her mother, fried eggs.

There was a sudden thundering on the stairs, and Minerva looked up. "Here he comes," she said, beaming as her eight-year-old brother, Robbie, came barreling into the kitchen, his face alight. He ran straight to Isobel, who wrapped him in a tight hug.

"Oh, happy birthday, sweetheart," she said, kissing his forehead and rocking him back and forth.

"Happy birthday, son," said Robert from the table.

"Haburthday!" cried Malcolm enthusiastically, holding two chubby hands in the air before returning to the tin soldiers he was playing with. Robbie grinned and ran to his father, who embraced him tightly.

Then Robbie straightened suddenly, drawing himself up to his full height. "Morning, everyone," he said, puffing out his chest. He seated himself importantly at his father's right, surveying the kitchen and nodding when it met his approval.

Minerva stifled a laugh, and her mother swatted her arm, though she too was laughing.

Pushing her hair back from her eyes, Minerva picked up two of the plates and carried them to the table. She laid the first in front of Robbie. "Happy birthday, Rob," she said, kissing the top of his head.

He ducked out of the way in revulsion, glaring up at his sister.

"Your face'll freeze like that," she teased, laying a plate in front of her father.

"It will not!" Robbie said indignantly, and Minerva laughed again, swooping in quickly to give him a gentle pinch on the arm. "Ow!" he cried.

"Pinch to grow an inch," Isobel sang, bearing the last three plates to the table. "Malcolm, your napkin, sweetheart—Minerva—"

Minerva tucked Malcolm's napkin into his collar before handing him his fork.

"Pinch an inch! Pinch an inch!" Malcolm sing-songed as Minerva collected his tin soldiers and put them on a shelf.

"Eat your breakfast, Malcolm," she said, sitting down beside him. "Robbie, you too."

"Oh, goodness, Malcolm, your _napkin_," Isobel laughed, reaching across the table to fix it.

"Well, I suppose we're all too busy for birthday presents," said Robert loudly, shaking his newspaper out and raising it before his face.

Robbie's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "No! No, Dad, we're fine, everything's just grand—" he looked pleadingly at his mother and siblings. Isobel immediately fell silent, smiling knowingly, and Malcolm clapped his hands over his mouth, eyes wide.

Minerva stifled another laugh.

Robert lowered his newspaper slightly, narrowing his eyes as he took in the silent breakfast table. He repressed a smile at the sight of Malcolm, who was frozen, unblinking.

"Well, all right," he conceded, bending over in his chair. He produced two boxes, one rather large, but the other small, flat, and square, and set them before Robbie, who was practically shaking with excitement.

"The smaller one's from me and Malcolm, Rob," said Minerva, smiling at her parents. Malcolm, who was now standing on his chair, nodded energetically, but silently. Minerva pulled him into her lap.

"Open that one first, darling," said Isobel, pointing to the small parcel.

Frowning curiously, Robbie tore the bright paper off. "What's—wait—is this—?" He looked up in astonishment at his family.

Minerva nodded, beaming, and Robbie lunged for the second package.

"It's a ca—" Malcolm tried to yell, but he was quickly muffled by Minerva's hand, clamped over his mouth.

Robbie's jaw fell open as the last of the wrapping paper fell away.

"It's a camera, Robbie," said Robert, smiling. "I know I said I'd have you wait until you were ten, but…" He looked at Isobel, who was watching Robbie's face happily. "Well, your mother and I decided that you might have one now."

"Malcolm and I thought we'd get you your first roll of film," said Minerva, depositing Malcolm back on his chair.

"I gave ten pence!" Malcolm said proudly.

"You must take good care of it, Robbie," Isobel said, and Robbie nodded, his mouth still agape.

"This—this is—the _best_ birthday—I've _ever_ had," he stammered, looking up at his family. "Thank you—thank you so much!"

Robert smiled, ruffling his hair. "Well, film can come from your pocket, but your mother and I are glad to have gotten it for you."

"Minerva, will you make me that potion that makes the pictures move?" Robbie asked excitedly, looking at his sister.

"I—" Minerva looked between her parents. Her father's smile had faded slightly, and her mother looked rather uncomfortable. "Well—maybe for one or two, Rob," Minerva said quickly, looking down and applying herself to her breakfast.

"Thanks," Robbie said enthusiastically, putting his camera directly before his plate, where he could look at it as he ate.

The rest of the morning passed relatively normally. After breakfast, Robbie immediately begged his father to teach him how to insert film into his camera. Then Isobel took both boys with her to the market to do the shopping for Robbie's birthday dinner while Robert retreated into his study.

After they had left, Minerva stared out of the window, scrubbing the frying pan. She sighed. In less than two weeks, she would be headed back to Hogwarts. Now was usually the time of year when she felt the disparity between her two lives most keenly, and yet she never seemed to be able to talk about it to anyone.

Her mother, an immensely gifted witch, grew anxious and uncomfortable whenever Minerva brought up school, or Quidditch, or her friends at Hogwarts in front of her father. Her father…well, Minerva would've been blind if she didn't see how left out he felt whenever magic came up in conversation, or Robbie and Malcolm accidentally showed some early sign of their own powers.

So, in many ways, Minerva ached to go up to her room and pack her trunk, freeing her wand and spellbooks from the floorboard in her room, where they were kept as a precaution against any surprise visitors; in many others, though, she longed to stay here, with her father, and to help him not feel so alone.

For yes, as much as Robert and Isobel might avoid the truth of the matter, Minerva had known, ever since she had received her letter from Hogwarts, that her parents felt terribly, terribly lonely, however much they loved each other.

She dried the frying pan and put it away before wiping her hands on the towel.

She looked out of the window and saw no sign of her father in the garden, and decided that he was probably still in his study. She knocked on the door gently.

"Come in."

Minerva opened the door, leaning against the frame. Her father sat at his desk, frowning slightly as he made notes out of his little leather bound Bible. He looked up.

"What is it, Minerva?" he asked, tapping his pen and looking slightly annoyed.

"I—er, well—do you want to go for a walk?" she stammered.

Robert raised his eyebrows, surprised. "By the stream?"

"Mother and the boys are gone," Minerva said, coming into the study and around his desk. "We can go anywhere we like." Her father smiled.

"All right, then," he said, sounding amused. He allowed Minerva to lead him out of the house.

They cut through the garden and followed a tiny footpath down a sloping hill, to a small collection of trees, through which they could still see their house. A narrow, bubbling stream cut through the little thicket alongside the footpath.

"It's been a few years since you were down here with me, eh?" Robert asked, as Minerva walked a short ways ahead, her long, skinny arms out like a tightrope walker as she picked her footing on the large rocks that crossed the stream.

Safely on the other side, she turned, smiling. "Only a couple."

Robert smiled, his hands beside his back as he and Minerva walked on either side of the stream.

"So," he said, after a few moments. "Are you going to do that trick for Robbie's pictures?"

Minerva looked sideways at her father; his eyes were focused on the ground before him. "I could," she said honestly. "I don't want them to be left lying around, though—a visitor could see—"

Her father waved one hand. "No, no, that's—that's all right, Minerva," he said, trying very obviously to sound nonchalant. "I'm sure your brother would like it if you did it for him."

Minerva frowned. They had reached a very narrow part of the stream, and she stepped over it easily, joining her father, who walked a few paces ahead. "I know it makes you—well—upset," she said.

Her father stopped and faced her. "Minerva, I'm never upset when I see you using your talents," he said seriously.

Minerva looked down, picking at the hem of her jumper. "It's just…it makes me sad, sometimes," she said. "The way you—you sort of—I dunno—look down, when Robbie or Malcolm asks me or Mum to use magic for them."

"I look down?" her father repeated, folding his arms. Minerva nodded.

"And I just—I don't like feeling different," Minerva said, looking pleadingly up at him. "I mean—no, just—"

Her father sighed, putting his hands on her shoulders. "Do I make you feel different, Minerva?"

"No," she said quickly. "No, it's not—I'm not saying it right—" she let out an exasperated sigh. "I just…I hate feeling separate from you. I'm already at school for most of the year, and…well, it's not fair if I don't get to be with you when I'm home. And—I don't know, I've just been feeling like—like maybe you're—" she sighed impatiently, looking away. "Maybe you're angry with me."

"Minerva," her father said. "I would never be angry with you for being everything that you are."

"But—you and Mother—you always get so nervous when I talk about school, I'm afraid you'll start arguing—or this morning, at breakfast," Minerva insisted. "I feel like I shouldn't be telling Robbie and Malcolm things about magic. It makes everyone so unhappy." She was truly upset now, fighting back tears.

"Now, now," said her father, wrapping her in his arms. "What's brought this on? Your mother and I don't argue about your education, you know that. I know you're safest when you're at school."

"That's not the same as wanting me to be a witch," Minerva said, dropping her voice on the last word.

Her father nodded. "You're right," he said, and she threw up a hand in despair. "But," he said loudly, "That only means that I want you to be a great deal more than a witch."

"What does that mean?" Minerva asked rather angrily, and her father held up a warning hand. She fell silent.

"It means only that no matter how little I truly understand of these powers the four of you have, you will always be my daughter first," he said. "And my daughter is kind-hearted, and brave, and honest about her feelings. The only reason I feel hurt right now is that you didn't tell me this sooner."

"I'm sorry," Minerva murmured.

Robert tilted her chin up. "Like it or not, I'm your father, and you're stuck with me. We'll never be separate."

Minerva smiled slightly. "What a horrible prospect," she teased.

"Come now," Robert laughed, putting an arm around her shoulders and continuing on the path, which was starting to slope upward. "I never did ask you about your school year."

Minerva shrugged, wrapping an arm around his waist. "It was all right. We won the House Cup."

Robert nodded, smiling slightly. "And that's for that—that sport you play?"

"No," Minerva shook her head. "We lost that in the final match."

"You never did!" her father said indignantly. "To whom?"

"Ravenclaw House," Minerva said, ascending the hill.

"The serpents?" he asked from behind her.

"No, no, that would've been really awful," she answered. "Mother's old house—the blue and gold one."

"Ah," Robert said, nodding, though Minerva could tell that he had not understood a word she had said.

They had reached the end of the thicket, which opened up onto an unpaved road that cut past rows and rows of endless wheat fields, glowing in the early afternoon sun. A breeze whipped the hot air in Minerva's face, and she drew a breath.

"Glorious day," said her father, gazing around.

"Nothing at all like the day Robbie was born," Minerva said, grinning.

Her father laughed, putting his arm around her again. "Talk of the devil," he said, nodding down the road.

Minerva turned. Robbie, Malcolm, and her mother were trudging their way up. Malcolm was waving energetically and Robbie still carried his camera.

"I got a picture of a cow!" he shrieked excitedly, and Minerva laughed.

"I might have to get him another pack of film by tomorrow," she said, grinning at her father. They started walking down the hill to help Isobel with her parcels, still holding onto each other.

"Smile," Robbie called, raising his camera, and Minerva looked up just in time to hear the click and whir of the shutter.


	4. Hermione Granger, 1984

3 September 1984

"Hermione…good morning, sweetheart," Mrs. Granger said softly, tapping on the door of her four-year-old's bedroom. "Are you awake?"

"Yes!" Hermione cried, leaping out of bed. She was fully dressed, and looked as though she had been so for quite some time. Her hair was a wild tangle beneath a bright red bow that matched her red overalls.

Mrs. Granger laughed, but quickly stifled it when Hermione's face fell. "You look wonderful, dear," she said, kneeling down. "Come here and let me fix your hair."

Hermione grinned and ran forward, throwing her arms around her mother's neck. Mrs. Granger smiled and scooped her up, carrying her into the bathroom, where Mr. Granger was already brushing his teeth, half-dressed in his work clothes.

"Well, goo' mornin'," he slurred through the toothpaste, scratching the top of Hermione's head affectionately as Mrs. Granger set her on the counter and reached into a drawer, producing a comb.

"Hermione dressed herself, today, Peter," she said.

Mr. Granger spat out his mouthful of toothpaste and wiped his mouth with a towel. "Well, she looks lovely, as usual."

Hermione was scrunching her face up in discomfort, sitting cross-legged on the counter as her mother attempted to comb through her hair. "Thank you," she managed to squeak.

Mr. Granger laughed and kissed her forehead before walking out of the bathroom to finish dressing.

"Are you excited, sweetheart?" Mrs. Granger asked, looking at Hermione's reflection in the mirror.

"Yes!" she answered eagerly.

"And what do you say to Miss Julie when we arrive?"

Hermione drew a breath. "'Good morning, Miss Julie, and thank you for having me here today,'" she said, beaming.

"Good girl," said Mrs. Granger, tugging through a particularly tough knot.

"Do you think the other children will like me?" Hermione asked thoughtfully, frowning slightly.

Mrs. Granger pulled the bow out of Hermione's hair and repositioned. "Why shouldn't they?"

Hermione shrugged, resting her elbows on her knees. "I'm not the same as them."

Mrs. Granger paused. "What makes you say that, Hermione?"

She shrugged. "Like last week, with the bird."

Mrs. Granger frowned. Last week, Hermione had found a baby bird that had fallen from its nest and was badly injured. She was horribly upset, and Mrs. Granger had been certain that the little bird wouldn't survive the night.

The next morning, she had been fully prepared to spare her daughter's feelings and tell her that the bird had flown away on its own, only to find Hermione sitting at the breakfast table with the baby bird, alive and healthy, in its shoebox.

"Well, sweetheart, we talked about that," said Mrs. Granger. "We were very lucky that the bird was all right."

Hermione nodded, still looking slightly perturbed. "I know. But…well, I just feel like maybe I helped it…get better."

Mrs. Granger frowned. "We did help it, sweetheart. We gave it a warm place to rest and took good care of it."

Hermione furrowed her brow more deeply, seemingly lost in thought. Then she looked up and smiled. "All right, Mummy," she chirped, swiveling around to face her mother.

"Shall we get you some breakfast so Mummy can get dressed, too?" Mrs. Granger asked, smiling and adjusting Hermione's hair ribbon. She nodded enthusiastically and held up her arms. Mrs. Granger picked her up and carried her to the kitchen.

Within an hour, Hermione was excitedly awaiting her departure to the first day of preschool, bouncing up and down in her chair at the breakfast table, swinging her legs as she clutched her fairy-tale book to her chest.

"All right," said Mr. Granger, hurrying into the room bearing Hermione's bright yellow backpack. Hermione handed him the book and watched, satisfied, as he carefully secured it in her bag. "All set?" he asked, and Hermione grinned.

"All set," she said, giving him a thumbs-up and climbing off her chair. Mr. Granger chuckled, helping her on with her bag.

"Come on, sweet girl, we don't want to be late," said Mrs. Granger, hurrying into the kitchen as she affixed an earring. She kissed her husband, who had started rummaging through the junk drawer for something.

Hermione beamed. "I'm ready," she said eagerly.

Mrs. Granger knelt down. "Are you going to have a wonderful day?" Hermione nodded, and her mother kissed her forehead. "Everyone's going to love you, all right? Don't be nervous."

"I won't be," Hermione promised. "I have my book for sharing time, too."

Mrs. Granger gave her a tight hug. "That's my girl."

"All right, lovely ladies," said Mr. Granger, producing a camera from the depths of the very messy drawer. He checked it for film, then raised it to his eyes. "Get together."

Hermione turned around, pressing up against her mother's knees and taking tight hold of the straps of her backpack. She puffed out her chest and beamed brilliantly. Mrs. Granger smiled, her hands on her daughter's shoulders, as the shutter snapped.

* * *

><p>Glad you guys like these! Keep the ideas coming! :)<p> 


	5. Scorpius Malfoy, 2017

3 August 2017

Scorpius bounded inside the house, carrying an armful of parcels and his special present, looking all around for his father. Astoria was just a pace behind him, also carrying packages.

"Draco? Draco, we're home!" she called.

"Dad! Dad, look what I've got!" Scorpius cried.

"We're in here, Scorpius." Narcissa appeared suddenly in the parlor doorway, smiling slightly at them both. They hurried to greet her. "I hope you don't mind, Astoria," she said, pecking her cheek. "Lucius and I wanted to see Scorpius in his robes."

"I got an owl, too, Grandmother, look!" Scorpius said enthusiastically, holding up a cage, inside of which a barn owl slept soundly with her head beneath her wing.

"Of course we don't mind," Astoria smiled, ushering them back into the parlor, where Scorpius ran to show his new owl to Draco and Lucius, who sat in matching chairs by the fire.

"Scorpius, she's beautiful, dear," Narcissa called, smiling at Astoria.

Scorpius grinned back at her, then looked at Draco, who was closely examining the owl in the cage.

"I think he's more excited about the owl than he is about school," Astoria chuckled under her breath to Narcissa, who laughed quietly and shook her head.

"Excellent choice, son," he said at last, grinning and winking at Scorpius, who took the cage, still admiring the owl.

"What about the robes, Scorpius?" asked Lucius, leaning forward and patting his arm.

"Oh—er—well, I can try them on, I guess," said Scorpius, looking round at Astoria, who nodded encouragingly. "Will you watch my owl?" he asked her.

Astoria laughed, taking the cage. "She'll be very safe with us. Run upstairs and change, we want a picture of you in your robes."

Scorpius grinned, turning to the large pile of wrapped packages on the table.

"Right there," said Astoria, pointing at a large one as she set the owl's cage on the table with the other parcels. "Try not to muss them, all right?"

"Okay," Scorpius said, already halfway out of the parlor.

Astoria shook her head again, smiling to herself. "Would anyone like a cup of tea?"

"We have something, thank you, Astoria," Lucius answered, lifting his glass of firewhisky. "Narcissa?"

"I'd like one, thank you," said Narcissa, sitting down next to her husband.

"Hettie?" Astoria called. With a _crack_, a house elf dressed in a clean, white pillowcase appeared.

"Yes, Mistress?" squeaked the elf, bowing low before the guests.

"Tea service for two," said Astoria, sitting down beside Narcissa. Hettie made another low bow and disappeared with a second loud _crack_.

Lucius shook his head, taking a sip of his drink, and looked at Draco. "When you were Scorpius's age, there was none of these 'equality for elves' nonsense," he scoffed. "It's all down to these ridiculous activists in the Ministry—"

"Oh, Lucius, not _now_," Narcissa said exasperatedly. She turned to Astoria. "All he means is that he thinks you're too nice to your house-elf."

Astoria was surprised. "I—well, I—I see no reason to be unduly cruel," she said. "She does her duty and punishes herself when she does not. What more can I ask for in a servant?"

Lucius scoffed, but Astoria bit back a retort at the quelling look on Draco's face; she often found herself arguing a great deal with her father-in-law, but apparently, she was not to do so today.

"So, Astoria," Narcissa said, clearly trying to diffuse the tension. "How was Diagon Alley? What kind of wand did Scorpius find?"

"Goodness," Astoria laughed, "I thought Ollivander would never find him one. I believe it's nine inches, applewood and unicorn hair."

"Unicorn hair, Draco, just like yours was," Narcissa said, smiling.

Draco nodded, sipping his drink.

With a sudden _crack_, Hettie reappeared with the tea tray and poured two cups. Narcissa took hers and served herself two spoonfuls of sugar, as Astoria poured cream into her own.

"Interesting," Lucius said after Hettie had disappeared again. He was frowning thoughtfully. "I can't think of anyone in our family who has ever attracted an applewood wand," he said.

"Your father had one, dear," said Narcissa.

Lucius shook his head. "No, they're rather hard to come by. I seem to recall that they attract only wizards of great charm and personality." His expression cleared, and he smiled proudly, standing to pour himself another drink.

"That's Scorpius," said Astoria, beaming with pride.

"Mother?"

Astoria looked around. Scorpius stood in the doorway, fully dressed in his brand-new Hogwarts robes.

"Oh, Scorpius," she gasped, holding back tears of pride. "You look so handsome."

"Very smart, Scorp," Draco said, walking to him and examining the robes.

"Thanks," Scorpius said, rather uncomfortably, but smiling.

Narcissa stood and swept over to him, beaming. "And think how marvelous it will look with a Slytherin prefect's badge," she said, kissing Scorpius's cheek. He blushed red. "Just a couple of years away."

"Oh, Draco!" Astoria said, standing suddenly and hurrying to the cabinet. "Where's that camera gotten to?"

"Mu-um," Scorpius groaned, and Draco chuckled.

"Just one, son," he promised.

"Would you take an extra with me, Scorpius?" Narcissa asked, and Scorpius blushed again, nodding quickly.

"Here we are," Astoria said, pulling a positively ancient-looking camera from the shelf of trinkets. "Scorpius, stand by the fireplace, darling."

Scorpius did as he was told, smiling rather sheepishly.

"A little pride, there, Scorpius," Lucius said from where he still stood by the window. "You're a Malfoy."

Scorpius straightened his back, smiling a bit more.

"That's my boy," Draco said proudly.

"Merlin, he looks just like Draco," Narcissa said. Astoria could hear the tears in her voice and smiled as she snapped the photograph.

* * *

><p>HEY WORLD!<p>

Extra post today, because I'm going to BEGBEGBEG you to go to chasingafterstarlight's profile (fanfiction. net / u / 2058815) and vote for Reunion in the poll she has up-I could win the competition if you do. Please do it ONLY if you read it and liked it-I don't want to ballot-stuff.

Also, I have a ton of spaces left in my Mother and Child Competition-check it out! :D (forum . fanfiction . net / topic / 44309 / 57779204)

Love you all.


	6. Ron and Rose Weasley, 2007

20 August 2007

Ron yawned, rubbing his face and glancing at the clock on his bedside table. It was nearly two in the morning, and he had just barely finished his latest case report. He looked at Hermione, who was asleep beside him; she was nearly eight months pregnant with their second child and thoroughly exhausted.

Normally, she was more than capable of staying up with him to help him complete paperwork—or at least to make him feel better about having left it late—but she hadn't been able to manage it lately. She was curled on her side, soundly sleeping with her arms folded tightly around herself.

Ron smiled, folding up his parchment and reaching for his wand. He flicked off the light and settled down close to Hermione, sighing in relief. Just as he closed his eyes, he heard a whimper.

He tensed up, not opening his eyes. _No,_ _please, no…_

Sure enough, a second, louder wail pierced the darkness.

Ron's eyes popped open; he glanced at Hermione, who had shifted slightly and frowned, starting to wake up. With a concerted effort not to disturb her, Ron hurried out of bed and slipped out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

He tiptoed into the nursery. Rose was standing in her crib, her chubby hands wrapped around the bars. She seemed to have been waiting for her audience, for as soon as Ron walked in, her lower lip trembled, her eyes filled with tears, and she opened her mouth wide.

"Mumma," she wailed.

"Shh, shh," Ron said quickly, closing the door partway and hurrying over to the crib. He scooped up Rose. "Shh, Rosie, shh, Dad's here…"

Rose would have none of it. She cried more loudly, squirming away from Ron. "Muhhhhmuhhh!"

"Come on, Rose," Ron pleaded, bouncing her gently against his shoulder. "Mummy's sleeping—Daddy's here—" Rose gave another loud wail, but it was muffled in Ron's shoulder as she buried her face against him and began to sob loudly. "Okay, okay—shh—what's wrong, Rosie?" Ron asked quietly, rubbing her back. He put one hand to her chubby cheek; she had no fever, and she didn't seem to be ill. Quite the contrary, in fact.

"Daaaaddeeeee!" she cried, tears pouring down her chubby cheeks.

"Rosie, come on, sweetheart," Ron begged. He was rocking back and forth, bouncing her on his shoulder. "What's the matter with you?"

Rose only cried more loudly, squirming and wailing. Ron looked around—Rose had a stuffed toy rabbit that she loved to cuddle, and usually it was the quickest way to calm her.

He frowned, not seeing the rabbit in the crib. "Where's Bunny, Rose?" he asked quietly. "Where's your Bunny?"

Rosie wailed, her tiny fists clutching his collar, too despondent to acknowledge the question.

Ron crouched, still bouncing Rose, and looked beneath the crib. The rabbit had obviously fallen through the slats and was now lying forlornly on its face in the carpet. "There we go," he grunted, reaching for it. He presented it to Rose, who took a great, shuddering breath and accepted her rabbit.

Ron relaxed immediately—then Rose spotted a great smudge of blackish-gray dust on the toy's face and pointed to it, starting to whimper again tearfully.

"Bunny, Dadd-ee," she pleaded loudly. "Fix Bunny!"

Ron cursed himself for leaving his wand on his nightstand, but he hurriedly seized the rabbit and tried to get the dirt off by rubbing it on the leg of his pajamas. Surprised and upset at being bereft of her rabbit again, Rose burst into noisy tears. Ron tried to return Bunny to her, but she only howled louder.

"BUNN-EEEEEE!"

"Okay—all right—Rose—Rosie, shh," said Ron, shifting Rose in his arms to cradle her. He tucked the rabbit into her chubby hands. "Okay—wait—erm…Hogwarts, Hogwarts, hoggy warty Hogwarts, teach us something please," he sang, bouncing her up and down. "Whether we be old and bald, or young with scabby knees—" And, to Ron's great surprise, Rose stopped crying. She sniffed, hiccupping slightly, but was starting to calm down. Ron grinned at her.

"Our—er—our heads could do with filling, with interesting stuff," he chanted quietly, lifting Rose above his head and beaming. He tossed her up and caught her; she gave a little giggle. "For now they're bare and full of air, dead flies, and bits of fluff." Ron swung Rose against his shoulder, starting to dance on the spot with her. "So teach us things worth knowing, bring back what we've forgot—"

_Click_.

He paused for a moment, frowning, and turned to face the door. He could have sworn he'd heard something. Had he woken Hermione?

"Daddy," Rose said, patting his cheek. "Daddy."

Ron smiled at her. "Just do your best, we'll do the rest, and learn until our brains all rot," he whispered, kissing the top of her head. Rosie giggled, placing her hands on Ron's cheeks and squishing his face.

* * *

><p>"Good morning," said a bright voice.<p>

Ron winced, screwing up his face against the bright light that was pouring through the window. Hermione sat beside him on the bed, holding Rose, who was sucking on the head of her stuffed rabbit as she stared at Ron with enormous blue eyes.

"Was Daddy going to go to work today, Rose?" Hermione asked her, as Ron hoisted himself up on his elbow, squinting at them.

"Daddy see-ping," Rose informed her through a mouthful of cottony ear, pointing at Ron.

"What time is it?" he asked, catching Rose's hand.

"You've got to go in about half an hour," Hermione said. Awkwardly, she heaved herself to her feet, still managing to balance Rose on her hip. "Breakfast's on the table," she called, disappearing through the door. "Oh—and there's a present on your nightstand."

Frowning, Ron sat up and rubbed his face before looking at his bedside table; a picture frame topped with a bow sat facing him, with a note attached to it. He picked it up, pulling the note off.

_Hogwarts, Hogwarts, hoggy, warty Hogwarts…_

_Love, the Girls_

Ron grinned. The photograph seemed to have been taken from behind a door, which was visible in the frame. It was of himself, holding Rose above his head in the pool of moonlight streaming through the window of the nursery. Bunny in hand, she was wriggling in his arms, positively beaming.

* * *

><p>Surprise, everybody! Good God, Lemon, I've missed you all so much. Guess what? SCHOOL IS OVER. Except for like eleven final exams. BUT THEN SCHOOL IS OVER. Which means I basically have all the time I could ever want to write.<p>

This also means that in approximately one hour, there is a surprise coming yo' way. Teehee.

Re: This Chapter: I LOVE THIS BABY. I cannot get enough of her. And I love Ron as a Dad. Reminds me of my own Dad...there's probably something in that, now I think on it.

Lucy


	7. Minerva McGonagall, 1996

2 July 1996

"You'll be careful, won't you?"

"For heaven's sake, Pomona, I'll be with my brother for six weeks. You needn't worry so," Minerva said tensely, limping over to her carpetbag and placing her last book inside its magically expanded depths. She winced, rubbing her hip, and snapped the bag shut.

"Oh?" Pomona asked, holding up two glass bottles. Minerva sighed; she had forgotten the potions she was meant to be taking for the next month or so. Pomona tucked the medicine safely inside the carpetbag and shut it again.

Minerva sat down on the bed, catching her breath for a moment. This year—this one school year—had taken ages upon ages to end. Glad as she was to see the back of Dolores Umbridge, and to know that her students were—for the time being, at least—safe, Minerva couldn't shake a feeling of deep foreboding. Perhaps it was the way Albus had disappeared abruptly after their traditional end-of-the-year dinner, or the way that Harry Potter had seemed to leave the castle in an even darker mood than she was accustomed to seeing, or even the sight of Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley each still recovering from their injuries, but Minerva was painfully aware that whatever lay ahead in the coming weeks, things were only going to get worse.

She looked at Pomona, who was watching her nervously; she'd been like a mother hen ever since Minerva had come back from St. Mungo's. Minerva had objected, feebly—she'd needed the help, though she would never admit it. Poor Pomona, Minerva thought. She and Filius weren't in the Order, and though they weren't blind, it was not the same as being directly in the thick of news. They didn't know how Sirius Black's death had shaken the Order of the Phoenix—nor did they know how powerful the Death Eaters were truly becoming. They didn't know that a full-scale war was, in Minerva's view, on the brink of breaking out.

"Are you sure you don't want me to go with you? Just to get you there?" Pomona asked.

Minerva took a deep breath, ignoring the twinge of pain that stabbed her in the chest. "For the last time, _no_. You've got your own holiday to get to." Minerva reached for her walking stick and pulled herself up—with Pomona's help.

"Will you send me a note, or something, so I know you've gotten there safely?" Pomona asked, as Minerva magically sealed first the door to her bedroom (skillfully hidden behind a portrait of Godric Gryffindor, who bowed graciously), and then her office door. Pomona carried the carpetbag, allowing Minerva to lead the way downstairs to the cavernous entrance hall.

"Only if you'll do the same for me," Minerva said quietly. They stood just inside the tremendous castle doors, face to face.

Pomona gave a worried flicker of a smile. "We just need you healthy for next term."

Minerva nodded. "I'll be quite well, I promise."

And suddenly, Pomona dropped the carpetbag and threw her arms around Minerva—a little too tight for comfort. "Please, _please_ be careful, Minerva. Whatever Albus wants—whatever he needs—it can wait until you're better!"

Minerva patted her back, trying not grimace in pain. "Pomona, you know Albus would never put me in danger. Come, now, stop that," she said, producing her tartan hankie for Pomona to dab at her eyes. "I'm going to see my brothers. That's all."

Pomona nodded. "I'd just—I couldn't imagine what it would have been like if—if—" she broke off, and Minerva felt the blood drain from her face.

"Well, they didn't get me this time," she said stoutly after a few moments of stomach-turning silence. "And I'm hardly expecting Death Eaters to turn up in Robert's spare bedroom, Pomona, so you mustn't worry so much."

"I know," Pomona said breathlessly. "I know." She smiled, drying Minerva's handkerchief with a tap of her wand. "I'll see you in just a few weeks."

"Just a few weeks," Minerva repeated. But suddenly, she too was aware that with Lord Voldemort exposed, she, Pomona, and all their friends who were close to Albus were in grave danger. Would this be the last time she saw Pomona? Hesitating only for a moment, Minerva put her arms around her. Pomona seemed surprised, but welcomed the embrace.

"You should get going," she said. "Your brother will wonder where you are."

Minerva nodded and picked up her carpetbag. She pushed open the castle door, walking out into the sunlight. "I'll see you in August," she called, pausing halfway down the path to the gates topped by winged boars. Pomona gave a wave, and Minerva turned back, limping down the path to the point where she might Disapparate.

In a matter of minutes, she had traveled nearly fifty miles. Minerva looked around. There were more clouds in the sky here, over the rolling green hills. She stood at the base of one of these hills in the middle of a wide road with badly cracked pavement; when she had been a child here, there had been no pavement at all.

Puffing slightly and leaning heavily on her cane, Minerva mounted the hill, coming to rest when she could see, just behind an overgrown orchard, the manse where she had grown up.

It was still a sweet little house, Minerva thought, though the new residents clearly hadn't spruced it up in some time. It had been difficult, when her mother had finally died, for Minerva to imagine it as belonging to anyone else, but it seemed to have been taken over by a loving new family. They had children in the house, too—Minerva could see their bicycles lying just inside the lean-to shed where the family plainly parked the car. They were out, now. Minerva took a few steps closer, frowning as she gazed up at the house.

She had been born in that upstairs bedroom—as had her brothers, Robert and Malcolm. She had spent every single summer wandering these very hills, occupying the window seat that looked out over an enormous field (that was no longer there, Minerva saw, but replaced with a cluster of identically styled Muggle homes), and sitting with her father as he penned his sermons in the study—the Muggles who lived there now had kept that room as a library, she noted with satisfaction.

"Now, how did I know I'd find you here before you finally made your way to our house?"

Minerva spun, her heart hammering. In one movement, she dropped her bag and drew her wand from her sleeve—

"Damn," she cursed, clapping one hand over her heart. She doubled over slightly, trying to catch her breath, which was jabbing painfully in her chest. "Don't do that, Robbie."

"Aren't you happy to see me?" her brother grinned, opening his arms.

Minerva glared at him, leaning on her cane, but Robert just beamed wider, looking so much like their father that she had to smile, too. She limped forward, wrapping her free arm tightly around him in a warm hug.

He laughed and patted her back—she winced painfully, pulling away.

"Careful, you old lunatic," she said ruefully, rubbing her chest.

Robert seemed to really take in her appearance for the first time. "That Ministry woman really did get you, didn't she?" he asked, frowning. "You look terrible."

"Better than you," Minerva grumbled, and Robert laughed appreciatively.

"Come on, girl, Kate and Meg have got a real feast going," he said, picking up her bag and offering his arm, which Minerva took grudgingly; the path was uneven. "Everyone's waiting to see you."

"How are the kids?" she asked.

"Oh, they're all just fine," Robert said. "Isobel's up at the house with William—she wanted to come down and meet you, but she's in no fit state for it," he laughed.

"I should say not! How did she even manage the trip up here?" Minerva asked incredulously. Her only niece was very, _very_ soon to be a mother.

"We did name her after you with good reason," Robert said. Minerva felt a blush creep up her neck and abruptly changed the subject.

"And what about your boys?" she asked.

"Rob's leaving next month for the lochs on one of those summer magizoological trips the Scamanders run, and John's settling down in Cambridge with Mary," Robbie said, ticking off his sons.

"And Thomas?" Minerva prompted. Her youngest brother Malcolm's son was an extremely athletic young man who had played as a reserve on England's national team in the last Quidditch World Cup.

"Still trying to win himself a career on the pitch," Robert laughed, leading them down a narrow, unpaved lane that cut through the fields. "They gave him a job creating new strategies for the Magpies, although that might have a bit more to do with his wife—she's Captain now."

"I don't know." Minerva raised her eyebrows. "He's talented. Maybe we'll have a decent chance of winning the league, now," she puffed, a little out of breath.

"What's the matter?" Robbie teased. "Too old to race me up a hill?"

"I can outrun you any day, Robert McGonagall," Minerva assured him. She took a few more shallow breaths. "Just not today."

Robert smiled, but Minerva felt him slow his pace for her. "So tell me," he said after a moment or two. "What's old Dumbledore up to, with all this You-Know-Who business?"

"Well," Minerva said, "Now that Fudge has finally stopped discrediting Dumbledore—and my students—it looks as though he's going to lose his job. I've no idea what the new Minister will do—though it can't be much worse than Fudge."

"I agree with you on that," Robert nodded. "And how is it, having the Boy Who Lived under your nose?"

Minerva threw him a sharp look. "Potter's a smart, talented, _fifteen-year-old_ boy," she said. "He's not any different than you or I."

"I believe that," Robert laughed.

"No, really, Robert," Minerva insisted. "All those dreadful things the _Daily Prophet_ wrote about him—it's like people think he's not just a boy—he's somehow better than all of us, and not human." A vision of Harry, sitting alone at the breakfast table this week, floated unbidden through her mind. "If I can tell you one thing about Harry Potter, Robert, it's that he's more human than most."

"You've picked your side again, eh?" Robert asked seriously.

"I never gave myself a choice," Minerva answered.

Robert stopped walking and faced her. "You're not a young woman anymore, Minerva."

"I wasn't exactly young the first time," she answered, trying not to let iciness creep into her tone.

"No, now listen to me," Robert said sharply. He stopped walking and faced her. "I've never seen you like this. Ever." He gestured up and down her body. "You've really been hurt, and it wasn't even a duel—it happened at Hogwarts, for God's sake."

Minerva felt herself flushing red. "I don't want to get into this again, Robert—I was never angry in the first place that you didn't join the Order—"

"No, but you weren't happy about it, either," he answered loudly. "Never mind I had two sons and a daughter on the way, I ought to have done something—"

"I wouldn't _ever_ have said that to you," Minerva told him. "I was _glad_ you and Malcolm stayed away—I was _glad_ you were safe!"

"Safe, when all we did was worry about whether or not your name was going to be the next one we saw in the paper?" Robert demanded. "That's not safe, Minerva."

Minerva stared at the ground. "I don't lose nearly as much as most if I choose stand and fight."

"Maybe you don't think so," Robert said, looking stung. "But _we_ could lose _you_, Minerva. Think about that." She calmly met his eyes. "I—I don't even know what to say to you," he continued desperately. "I want to tell you what to do, but I know you won't listen—"

"You're right, I won't," Minerva interrupted gently. "But has it occurred to you, Robert, that I'm not here for advice? That maybe I'm here to see my family?"

Robbie stared at her for a long while, silent. "All right," he said after a few moments. "All right, then."

Minerva nodded and kissed his cheek. "Thank you."

Robert offered his arm again, leading the way up the path, which was beginning to reach the crest of a hill. "I guess we can take care of you that much," he joked.

Minerva was barely listening; at the top of the hill, it was harder for her to walk, and so had her undivided attention on carefully picking her footing up the path. As they reached the top of the hill and Robert's cottage came into view, the sun was hanging quite low in the sky, tinting everything a deep golden color. Minerva let out a small sigh. She had forgotten just how beautiful it was here—and if things had gone only slightly differently for her, she would have spent her entire life in this rural, quiet corner of the world. Would it still have been beautiful, then?

"Minerva!"

"Minerva?"

"It's her!"

"Hello!" Minerva called, holding a hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun. Several figures were hurrying toward her at once, and she found herself instantly swept up in the many-armed embrace of her own brother, Malcolm, and her sisters-in-law, Kate and Meg, all of whom were laughing and crying and talking loudly, joyously over one another.

"Easy," Minerva said, pulling out of Malcolm's arms and putting her hand to her chest. She looked around at all of them, unable to stop a smile.

"We've been worried sick about you," Kate said immediately, her careworn face simultaneously relieved and concerned. "Malcolm had to stop me Apparating right down to your room in St. Mungo's."

Minerva shook her head. "I'm all right," she promised, patting Kate's arm.

"And what's all this, then, decoration?" Meg laughed, gesturing to Minerva's stick and putting an arm around her. Meg was a big, bold woman with a loud laugh and quick temper—it seemed odd that she and Kate, such a gentle and calm creature, should be such good friends—but Minerva never paid it any mind.

"We've given you Johnny's room," Kate said, as they led her up the garden path. Robert went ahead with her bag. "It's the biggest, and doesn't get too bright in the mornings—you need your rest, you do—"

"—Robert nearly lost his head completely when we got that letter from St. Mungo's—"

"—At least tell me you got that old hag back for it—"

"All right, all right, let her get into the house," Meg called loudly, shooing everyone before her. "Poor woman's walked halfway from Hogwarts…"

Minerva was ushered into the bright little cottage, where smells of wonderful cooking wafted through the air. Somehow, just being here in this safe, familiar environment, surrounded by the people she loved so greatly, was working wonders for her already. She could feel her spirits lifting—a bright flash went off in her face.

"Oh, Robbie, stop," she admonished, blinking hard. "You know that drives me mad—"

"The amateur photographer," Meg said, shaking her head and snatching the camera away from her husband, who had obviously divested himself of Minerva's bag when she hadn't been paying attention.

"Aunt Minerva?"

Minerva looked round. Isobel had appeared in the doorway to the parlor, closely followed by her husband, who was grinning. And in just that split second, Minerva became aware of just how lucky she was to be standing with her family at all. All of their eyes were on her—they were all together in the cramped entryway. They were here, and safe, and alive—and so was she.

For the first time in far too long, Minerva felt herself welling up with tears. She held out the arm that was not leaning on her cane. "Oh, _Isobel_," she gasped, and her niece rushed forward.

"Steady, there," Malcolm said, catching Minerva's arm when she staggered.

"Shut up, Malcolm," Minerva advised him, hugging Isobel tightly enough to hold back her own tears—every worry, every fear, every nervous thought about the _Daily Prophet_, the Ministry of Magic, Harry Potter, Dolores Umbridge—what did it matter now?

She pressed her face into Isobel's shoulder for a moment, sniffing, and then pulled back.

Isobel's eyes were sparkling with tears as well. "I've missed you, too," she laughed, rubbing her belly.

Minerva looked around at all of them, trying to find the words for everything she wanted to say, but they seemed to get stuck in her throat. Isobel put an arm around her waist.

"We're glad you're home," she said gently, and Minerva's tears spilled over. She looked down at the floor, blushing scarlet and dabbing at her tears with her sleeve as Robert's camera flashed again.

* * *

><p>D'aww.<p> 


	8. Lily Potter and Lorcan Scamander, 2026

15 August 2026

Lily sat in her mother's armchair in the living room, jiggling her leg anxiously. Her father sat on the sofa, reading the _Daily Prophet_, though he hadn't turned a page in over an hour. Her mother was floating in and out of the room every few minutes to straighten something, or pick up a book, only to replace it a few minutes later.

"You don't need to wait with me," Lily said quietly. "You've got dinner with Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione…I can stay here." She was speaking softly, trying to save her voice. Even after spending most of the summer recovering from a violent and painful encounter with a graphorn in the final task of the Triwizard tournament, her voice was weak and badly damaged.

"Oh, we don't mind," her mother said, brushing her fingers against Lily's hair as she passed on her way to straighten the window hangings.

_I do_, Lily thought. "It's just Lorcan," she said out loud. "You know Lorcan."

"Of course we do," said her mother absently, looking out the window curiously.

"You look like my aunt," said Dad, and Lily snorted. She had met her Great Aunt Petunia only a handful of times, but she had no trouble believing, as she watched her mother, that Aunt Petunia was fond of spying on her neighborhood as well.

Mum, however, was not pleased with the comparison, and swatted Dad's shoulder as she left the room.

Lily glanced nervously at her watch. Lorcan would be here at any moment. She touched a hand to her heavily scarred throat. She had tried for hours to find something that would hide the jagged wound left by the graphorn's tusk. The best she had come up with was a wool scarf—as it was August, this would never do.

Automatically, her fingers moved to massage her stiff shoulder, which also bore scars (rather more successfully hidden by the sleeve of her new, peacock blue dress).

"Feel all right?" Dad asked, not lowering his newspaper.

"Fine," Lily answered. She was feeling more self-conscious by the minute, between her parents and her dress, which her best friend, Alice Longbottom, had convinced her to purchase just this week. In retrospect, Lily felt that she had good reason to murder Alice the next time she saw her—this dress revealed much more of the scar than Alice had let her believe.

This was Lily's first official date with Lorcan—they'd seen each other a handful of times in passing, and written to each other quite a lot, but the fact was that since Lily had been in St. Mungo's right after the task, and Lorcan had kissed her—it had been a welcome surprise, if she was honest—they had not gone any further in their relationship.

Lily bounced her foot impatiently on the floor, running her fingers over the white, jagged scar on her upper arm. Perhaps she had time to go and change. She got up, intending to hurry upstairs to her bedroom.

"Don't be nervous," said Dad, still from behind the newspaper. He hadn't even lowered it. "Sit down, Pixie."

"That's weird, that is," Lily said accusatorily. Dad shrugged, rustling his papers.

There was a knock at the door—Lily heard her mother, who was obviously in the kitchen now, drop a plate, curse, and mend it—but Lily was already pulling open the front door.

Lorcan stood on the step, looking very handsome indeed. He grinned at Lily, who blushed.

"Hi," she squeaked.

"Hey," he answered. "Er—these are for you—" He pulled his hand from behind his back, holding out a bunch of multicolored wildflowers that seemed to be humming gently and could only have come from his mother's garden.

"Thank you," Lily said, a little stunned. She took them. "They're beautiful."

"Lily, who is it?"

Lily felt a sudden impulse to strangle her father, who appeared, poking his head out of the sitting room door. "Lorcan!" he cried in surprise. "Good to see you. Glad you found the house all right."

And in an instant, her father had seized Lorcan by the hand and pulled him into the house. Lily covered her face with one hand as, right on cue, her mother came hurrying out of the kitchen.

"Lorcan! How are you, dear?" she asked, giving him a hug. "Oh, how nice—here, Lily, I'll put those in water for you—"

"Come on in, Lorcan," Dad said, clapping him on the shoulder. Lorcan threw Lily a look that begged for help; Lily responded with one that told him she was powerless.

"So," Dad said, settling Lorcan on the sofa and sitting down opposite him. "What are you all going to do tonight?"

Lorcan opened his mouth, unable to speak for a moment.

"We're going into town," Lily said testily.

"Oh, that sounds fun," said Mum, perching herself on the arm of the couch beside Dad. "You should try that new place, I hear they've got excellent—"

"Mum," Lily moaned softly, looking at her with pleading eyes. Her mother gave a slight smirk and winked at her, and Lily knew that this torment was ending no time soon. She finally sat herself down beside Lorcan, who smiled nervously at her. She patted his back, trying to assure him that it would be over, one day.

Half an hour they endured of Lily's parents making small talk; Lily got the impression that at a certain point, it stopped being about concerned parents and became more focused on just giving her a hard time. Lorcan talked about his new job in Diagon Alley, which he was starting in another two weeks and which would put him closer to Lily, who worked at Ollivander's wand shop.

"And what about after your apprenticeship?" Mum asked.

"Mum," Lily groaned again, a bit more sharply.

"I'd like to own a shop for magical creatures, myself," said Lorcan cheerily; he was adapting rather well to this new and terrible form of torture.

"It must run in the family," said Dad, and Lily rolled her eyes, covering her face with her hands.

"Now, Lorcan, tell me, how is your mother?" Mum asked. "I haven't heard from her since she got back from—Greece, was it?"

"Well, we'd better get going," Lily said loudly, standing up. She looked desperately at her parents, who seemed to finally take pity on her.

"Oh—all right," said Lorcan, getting to his feet as well. He shook Dad's hand. "Nice to see you both," he said, accepting a hug from Lily's mother. "I'll tell my parents you'd like to see them—"

"Come on," Lily said grumpily, pulling him by the elbow. "I'll be back later tonight!"

"Have fun," Mum called, waving from the doorway as Lily and Lorcan hurried down the garden path. Lily heard the tiniest snatch of maniacal laughter before her front door swung shut.

Just outside the garden gate, Lily paused, pulling her purse securely onto her shoulder and double-checking that her wand was there, and then looked up at Lorcan. He was sniggering, and as she looked at him, he burst into laughter.

"That—was—_hilarious_," he wheezed, doubled over with his hands on his knees.

"Mortifying, more like," said Lily, leaning against the low wall that fenced off her yard. She looked back at the house, where a curtain in the front window suddenly moved, as though someone had been peering out of it and hadn't wanted to be seen. "Come on, let's get going."

"I'm quite looking forward to this," Lorcan said, when he'd recovered himself. "I haven't seen you in weeks."

Lily nodded. "It's been nice writing, but…not the same." She blushed a bit and put an unconscious hand around her neck.

Lorcan seemed to know what she was thinking. "You look really nice," he said.

"Thanks," Lily said softly.

"I guess you're feeling better?" he asked as they walked down the street.

Lily looked at the ground. "Oh, you know…I'm fine," she said, with a bit more bite than she intended.

"I'm sorry," Lorcan said. "We don't need to talk about it."

Lily smiled sideways at him. Timidly, she reached out and took his hand—to her relief, he beamed and did not pull away.

* * *

><p>"No, really, Lily, it's fine, I understand," Lorcan said earnestly. "It's not a problem. I had a great time with you tonight."<p>

Lily nodded. She was becoming used to losing her voice with increasing frequency—she would inevitably have to return to St. Mungo's for more examinations soon enough—but never did she think that she would lose her voice during dinner with Lorcan. She had never felt so humiliated. Right in the middle of a sentence, too. Lorcan had tried to carry on with the date valiantly, but they had eventually been forced to concede defeat when Lily couldn't even order dessert.

Now she and Lorcan were on the front step at Lily's house. "I'm really sorry," she mouthed apologetically, touching her throat.

"It's fine," Lorcan insisted.

Lily sighed heavily, downcast, and her heart seemed to sink down into her feet. She hadn't even gotten the chance to do more than hold his hand. Finally she raised her eyes, gave him a brief, halfhearted smile and wave, and turned to the door.

"Wait a moment," Lorcan said, catching her arm. "Where are you going?"

Lily stared at him, frowning. She pointed inside the house, then to her watch—it was late.

Lorcan grinned. "Do…do you want to have a second date?" he asked. Lily's mouth fell open, and Lorcan laughed. "Yes?"

Lily nodded eagerly, reaching into her purse and pulling out her wand, which she lit, and a tiny pocketbook calendar, which she opened before Lorcan, pointing with her wand to a date in the next week.

Lorcan grinned. "I'll pick you up from work, say at five?"

Lily wrinkled her nose—far from being afraid of going out with Lorcan, she did not want to place their second date at the Leaky Cauldron, where Alice (and her parents) would undoubtedly be hovering.

Lorcan seemed to understand. "We won't go to the Leaky Cauldron," he said.

Lily nodded again and beamed, tucking her pocketbook and wand away. She beamed, taking Lorcan's hands in hers.

"I had a great time with you, Lily," he said. She smiled. Then, quite suddenly, he gave an odd sort of twitch—as though he'd wanted to lean in and kiss her, but thought better of it. Instead, he cleared his throat nervously and, still holding hands, they walked together to the garden gate.

They stopped just at the edge of the yard. The crescent moon was brilliant overhead in the muggy, warm night, and a light breeze rustled the hedges in the garden. Lily looked around uncomfortably, unsure of what to do.

For some reason, Lorcan looked equally nervous.

"Well—uh—I'll see you—next week," he said, shifting his weight from side to side.

Lily nodded.

"Well…bye, Lily."

Lily stared at him for a long moment.

"Are…are you okay?" Lorcan asked, looking concerned. "Li—"

He was unable to finish his sentence because Lily had flung her arms around his neck and was kissing him passionately. She did not release him for a very long time.

* * *

><p><em>Moments earlier...<em>

* * *

><p>"Harry! Harry—wake up!"<p>

"Whasswrong?"

"Look!"

Ginny was perched on the windowsill in their dark bedroom, peering through the curtains at the yard below. Harry sat up, pushing his glasses on.

"Are you all right?" he mumbled.

Ginny nodded. "Come and see!"

Harry groaned and rolled across the bed, stood and came to rest his chin on Ginny's shoulder, staring sleepily out the window. "What?" he asked.

Ginny pointed. "Lily's home," she said happily. Out by the garden gate, which was clearly visible in the bright light of the moon, Lily was standing with Lorcan, who was rocking back and forth nervously.

"Oh, come on, Gin," Harry said. "We don't need to spy on them."

"Try and tell me you're not the least bit curious, Harry," Ginny answered. She was beaming. "Oh, I hope things went well…she needs this, it's been a terrible time for her."

"Back to bed, Ginny," Harry said, climbing under the covers again.

Ginny gave a sudden shriek, and Harry sat bolt upright. "What is it?"

Ginny had a hand over her mouth. She scrambled off the windowsill. "Where's the camera?"

"Ginny, don't you dare," Harry warned her, going to the window. He looked down onto the lawn and paled—then blushed. "Oh—wow—"

"She takes after me!" Ginny said gleefully, returning, camera now in hand.

"No—no—she's going to kill you—" Harry was doing his best to block Ginny from reaching the window.

"One day she'll _want_ these memories," Ginny said, ducking under his arm.

"Not from you, she won't—"

"Harry—"

"No—Ginny—"

The camera flashed, snapping the picture. Nearly three years later, Lily gave Lorcan a framed copy—as a wedding present.

* * *

><p>An ode to embarrassing parents everywhere.<p> 


	9. Harry Potter and Petunia Dursley, 2028

22 January 2028

Petunia sat up very straight in her hospital bed, taking slow, deep breaths.

"You all right, Mum?" Dudley asked, laying a hand on her knee. She nodded jerkily. "He just wants to say hello."

"I know," said Petunia, her lips tight and her teeth clenched. She sniffed irritably. "I just didn't know it would be today."

"I told you twice last week," Dudley reminded her. "D'you want me to tell him you'd rather he came back another day?"

Petunia stared out of the window. "When are Maryann and Daisy arriving?" she asked absently.

"They'll be in soon, around teatime," said Dudley. "Mum."

"What?"

"Should I tell Harry to come back another day? Do you feel up to seeing him?" he asked.

Petunia sighed. "All right, he can come in."

Dudley nodded and left the room. Petunia busied herself with straightening her blankets and folding them neatly over her middle. She tucked her pillows more comfortably behind her back and tried to relax; she could hear her heart monitor starting to beep more rapidly.

She was just smoothing her hair when the door to her room opened again; it was Dudley, and a middle-aged man with jet-black hair only lightly touched with gray, round spectacles, and brilliant green eyes. Petunia swallowed, staring at him.

"Hi, Aunt Petunia," Harry said genially, standing by the end of the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm well enough, thank you," Petunia answered immediately. "How are you?"

Harry nodded. "I'm all right, thanks. Dudley's been telling me all about…er…about the family. Sounds like…things are pretty…nice."

"Except for my being in the hospital, you mean," said Petunia.

"Right," Harry said slowly. "Well…yes."

Petunia heard the heart monitor beep quickly again and took a deep breath. "Why don't you sit down, Harry?"

Harry looked surprised. "All—all right. Thank you."

She nodded stiffly.

"I think I'll go and check on Maryann and Daisy," Dudley said. "I'll be back soon." Before Petunia could protest, he was gone, and she was alone with Harry, who was sitting beside her, quite at ease.

"So, uh…when can you go home?" he asked.

Petunia shook her head. "No one here knows anything, they won't tell me," she said irritably, more to herself than him. She threw Harry a sharp look. "I imagine you don't have this sort of problem in _your_ hospital?" Then she looked horrified with herself, staring around as though she were afraid someone was going to leap out of the bouquets that covered the nearby table and reveal her secrets to the world.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Harry said. "Lily had a bit of an accident two years ago—she's still getting treated to get her voice fixed—she never knows how long it takes them to take care of her."

Petunia did a double-take. "Who?"

"My daughter, Lily," Harry said. "You've met her."

Petunia blinked. "Oh—that's—that's right. Yes. And—what happened to her?"

"She had an accident, at school," Harry said. "She has trouble with her voice now."

"Oh," said Petunia. "Well—I'm sorry to hear that."

Harry nodded. "She's fine."

An awkward silence fell—at least, it was awkward for Petunia, who could feel her stress levels increasing by the second.

"Are you all right?" Harry asked suddenly, for she was clenching her blanket tightly in her fists.

"Fine—fine," she said, though her breath was now coming in short, painful gasps and she could not calm herself.

"Petunia?" said Harry loudly, rising.

"Mum?" Dudley had reappeared at the door and hurried in. "Mum, it's okay—relax, relax—you're fine, Mum—"

Petunia was shaking with the effort of trying to keep her breath, squeezing Dudley's hand tight in her own. Finally, after an agonizing minute or so, she felt her heartbeat slowing down and her breath beginning to even out. She closed her eyes, leaning against her pillows. Dudley still held her hand.

"You all right?" he asked, and she nodded, opening her eyes again.

"I think I'd better go," Harry said. He was standing near the door. "I'll just—I'll get going. Feel better,"

"No."

To Harry's surprise as much as her own, it was Petunia who spoke. "Dudley," she said coolly. "Will you give us another moment alone?"

Dudley looked warily between Harry and his mother. "All—all right," he said. "Take it easy," he told Petunia, who nodded and patted his hand.

After he had left, Petunia stared down at her hands. They were shaking, and she clasped them together. "I won't see you again," she told Harry. The words fell through the air like shards of ice. Harry said nothing. She looked sharply up at him, and was suddenly struck by something that, for many years, she had not really appreciated.

"I wouldn't ask you to," Harry answered. He shook his head. "I'll go."

"You look like your parents," said Petunia.

Harry stared at her. He had gone pale and quite still.

The words seemed to ring in Petunia's ears; for sixteen years, she had raised the boy—albeit distantly—who with every passing day resembled her sister more and more. Now, the same bright green stare that she had avoided for decades was fixed firmly on her. It saw through her.

And it was terrifying.

"Well—say something," she snapped. Harry took a breath, looking away for a moment. Then—

"Why can't you say her name?" he asked quietly.

Whatever Petunia had expected, it was not that. "What?"

"Why can't you say my mother's name?" Harry asked. He stared at her. "You know, I haven't been scared of you since I was a child. I stopped wanting you to care about me even before that. And years—_years _ ago, Petunia—I moved on from all of it. I learned when I was seventeen that there are things that are worse than dying—like living with regret. I know how much you regret everything to do with me. But…the thing is, you're not my regret, and you haven't been for a long time."

Petunia stared at him. It felt as though this were the first time she ever saw Harry as her sister's son.

"So you can imagine how sorry I am that you still regret me," Harry said. "I know you didn't want me here, and I'll leave you in peace, now. I only came because Dudley asked me, and because I thought it might have been long enough for you to be able to look me in the eye. And honestly, I hoped that after all this time you'd know that the only reason I'm here is because of my mother's sacrifice. You're her sister. You know how brave she was. I genuinely thought that maybe by now you'd have recognized it, and been brave enough yourself to realize that what you're still angry about…isn't worth it." He turned, ready to go, and paused. "Nearly everyone I've ever met has told me that I have her eyes. Everyone except you."

Petunia's voice was stuck in her throat.

"Goodbye, Aunt Petunia," Harry said. He smiled, though there was something a bit stiff behind it. "It was nice to see you again. I hope you feel better soon."

She opened her mouth to speak, but was surprised by a sudden, bright flash of light. She and Harry both looked around. Dudley's wife, Maryann, was standing in the doorway.

"I'm sorry," she said, lowering her camera. "You—you just looked so happy, Harry—"

"It's fine, Maryann," Harry said. "I was just leaving. Good to see you."

"Oh, you too," Maryann said, sounding surprised. She gave Harry a quick hug. "Goodb—"

But Harry had already excused himself and left the room. Maryann shook her head and approached the bed, straightening blankets and adjusting pillows. Petunia was only distantly aware of this—she felt as though she had gone numb.

"It's always nice to see Harry, isn't it?" Maryann asked mildly. "He's such a nice fellow. I'll make sure I get you a copy of that photograph."

Petunia said nothing, but continued to stare at the door through which her nephew—Lily's son—had just disappeared.

* * *

><p>Explanation of any confusing points: Harry and Dudley (and his fam) are Christmas card correspondents, plus occasional teas, etc. Dudley's met all the Potter kids. Harry's met Dud's daughter.<p>

Petunia's been widowed for a while. She hasn't seen Harry in ten-ish years-she's seen him probably two/three times since they all left Number Four.


	10. The Weasley Women, 2000

18 December 2000

"She looks a bit different, all right?" said Bill nervously, helping Fleur with her cloak. "She—"

"Bill, she eez my muzzer-in-law, and I love 'er. Nothing eez going to change zat," Fleur said gently, pulling her cape over Victoire, who was bundled against her chest. "You know we weel be fine."

"She's just…not quite herself," Bill told her. "You haven't seen her, I don't want you to be surprised."

Molly Weasley had just spent the last month in St. Mungo's with a terrible case of dragon pox. While this was hardly a serious affliction to wizarding children, it had terrible, even life-threatening effects on adults. After several nerve-wracking weeks for the entire family, Molly had only just arrived back at the Burrow a few days ago.

"Don't worry, Bill," Fleur insisted, kissing his cheek. "I weel just be 'appy to see 'er." Bill nodded and opened the front door onto the frozen, snow-dusted lawn.

Bill tapped the doorknob and followed Fleur out past the gate. "I'll go first," he said, and she nodded. "Be careful."

"Don't worry," Fleur said. A moment later, Bill had vanished with a tiny _pop_. Fleur took a breath of cold sea air, clutched Victoire close to her chest, and Disapparated. When the intense pressure had disappeared and she could see again, she was standing in the snowy lane that led to the Burrow.

Victoire gave a disgruntled whimper—she did not like Apparition. Fleur kissed her forehead. "Good girl, ma petite," she murmured. Bill grinned and took Victoire up in his arms. She looked like a large pink snowball, wrapped in fluff and warm winter clothing. Only her chubby pink cheeks and bright blue eyes peered out from her fluffy white hood.

"Let's go," said Bill, offering his arm to Fleur, who drew her cloak about her shoulders. Nearly five years she had lived in England, and she still bitterly detested the winter months. Her daughter, however, had a different idea—Victoire was reaching up to the cloudy sky, trying to snatch snowflakes in her chubby fists.

Bill seemed to know what Fleur was thinking and put an arm around her. She smiled as they walked to the Burrow's garden gate, which creaked loudly.

"Hello!"

Arthur appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing his ugliest Christmas sweater vest and an enormous grin. He trotted out to greet them, kissing Fleur's cheek and snatching playfully at Victoire, who giggled madly.

"'Ow is she?" Fleur asked, as Arthur took Victoire from Bill.

"Oh, she's brilliant, can't wait to see you," Arthur said distractedly. "Yes, Victoire, yes she is! You want to see your Gran? Do you?" He started walking back to the house, leaving Bill and Fleur behind.

Bill shook his head and followed him, Victoire's hand in his.

The house was stiflingly warm, presumably for Molly's sake. Fleur immediately removed her cloak and passed it to Bill before helping Arthur remove Victoire's many layers.

"Bill? Fleur?"

Fleur looked at Bill, who nodded encouragingly, and went to the living room. Molly sat in Arthur's armchair, wrapped in blankets and positively beaming.

"Molly," Fleur said happily, hurrying to hug her. "'Ow are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine," Molly said softly—her voice was a bit hoarse. "How are you? I've missed you so much!"

"We 'ave missed you—I am sorry I could not come to ze 'ospital," Fleur said regretfully, kneeling next to Molly and taking her hands.

"Nonsense, I wouldn't have let you near me, with a baby to go home to," Molly said in scandalized tones. Fleur smiled. "Oh, there she is!"

Arthur and Bill had walked in, carrying Victoire. Bill bent and kissed his mother's pale cheek while Fleur got up and took Victoire from Arthur.

"You look good, Mum," Bill said happily, sitting down on the hearth.

"I feel wonderful," said Molly lightly.

"Victoire, say, _bonjour_," Fleur cooed, placing her in Molly's arms. "_Bonjour, grandmere_."

"She's getting big," Arthur said appreciatively, sitting down beside Molly. "And so beautiful."

"Like her mother," said Bill, kissing Fleur's temple.

Molly was settling back in her chair, holding Victoire, and Fleur had the chance to see just how worn she appeared; she was pale and had a distinct air of exhaustion about her. The weight she had lost was quite apparent in the firelight. She seemed to feel Fleur's eyes on her and looked up.

"What has she been doing?" she asked Fleur.

"Oh—well—she can 'old 'erself up," Fleur said, reaching forward and patting Victoire's belly. "And she eez trying to crawl, now."

"Oh, just wait," Molly laughed, her eyes back on Victoire. "She'll have you chasing her everywhere before long."

"Bill once tried to escape his crib in the middle of the night," Arthur told Victoire. "I walked in and there he was, one leg on either side of the railing, and he was so surprised when I walked in, he flipped right over the side onto his back. Didn't make a sound. I thought he'd hit his head, but no—he was just so startled, he didn't know what he'd done."

Fleur laughed, rubbing Bill's shoulder. "Zat explains so much!" she said.

Bill rolled his eyes. "Victoire's a lady, she waits for us to come and get her," he explained.

"Oh, she does that now," Molly said, shifting Victoire to her shoulder. "Just wait—if she's anything like you were, you'll both be quite busy for the next couple of years."

"Bill?"

Everyone looked up the spiral staircase, where a great deal of brilliant red hair was just visible on the fourth-floor landing.

"Hey, Gin!" he called, standing up. "I didn't know you were home."

Ginny was bounding down the stairs, three at a time, and rushed into Bill's arms. "I've been here since Mum got home," she said brightly. "Hi, Fleur!"

Fleur kissed her cheek, and then Ginny got on her knees beside Molly's chair. "Oh, she's even prettier," she sighed, tickling Victoire's cheek. She glared up at Fleur. "Leave it to you to have a baby that gets more beautiful every time I look away."

Molly stroked Ginny's hair. "You did a pretty good job of that, too," she said.

"Mum," Ginny flushed scarlet.

"You were kind of cute," Bill said, pinching her cheek.

"Ow—get off me," she growled, batting his hand away and standing up. "D'you want tea, Mum?"

"Thank you, dear," Molly said absently, still cradling Victoire; Fleur got the distinct impression that she was drawing more healing from holding the baby than anything else. This was something Fleur understood—nothing ever made her happier than Victoire.

"Bill, tell me about this situation at Gringotts, with that old vault," Arthur said, getting up and gesturing for Bill to follow him to the kitchen, presumably to find some firewhisky. "My office is getting all sorts of requests to come down and examine the things you're finding."

Bill shook his head. "Well, it's one of those old pureblood family vaults—can't remember the name, but they've finally died out and now we've got all their possessions. Most of it needs to go through the Ministry…"

Fleur, now alone with Molly and Victoire, got up from the hearth and drew the rocking chair from the corner closer to Molly's seat. She beamed down at Victoire, who was squirming slightly.

"I'll just never get over her," Molly said quietly, stroking the baby's cheek.

Fleur swallowed and looked at Molly's profile. "I—I know you do not like to 'ear zis, but…I do not know what Bill and I would 'ave done eef—" she broke off when Molly blushed and adjusted her position. "Molly, I do not say zis to you often, but—I love you vairy much—like my own muzzer, almost."

Molly turned and looked at her. "Oh, Fleur," she said softly.

"I am so glad you are all right," Fleur said suddenly, embracing her tightly. She sat back again. "And I am sorry to say all zis now, when you are jus' getting better, but I 'ave been so worried—"

Molly blinked several times and smoothed Fleur's hair gently. "I understand, dear. I'm glad I'm all right, too," she joked. Fleur gave a laugh and felt her tears spill over.

She wiped them away hurriedly as Ginny came back into the room bearing a tea tray. "'Ere, ma belle," she said gently to Victoire, picking her up. "Give your grandmuzzer a moment to rest, non?" She propped Victoire up in her lap, kissing the top of her head.

Ginny poured a cup of tea for Molly, who sat up and accepted it. "You know," she said to Fleur, "I think I see a bit more red in her hair."

Ginny rolled her eyes and shared a knowing look with Fleur. "Victoire is blonde, Mum, there's no getting around it," she said. "Although you'll have to do better next time, Fleur."

Fleur laughed. "And 'oo says zere will be a next time?" she asked.

There was a sound of clattering glass in the kitchen, and then Bill's voice shouted, "What?"

Ginny fell off the hearth, she was laughing so hard.

"Nothing, dear," Molly called, shaking her head. Ginny still lay sprawled on the floor, wheezing with laughter. Victoire leaned forward, reaching for her and babbling excitedly.

"What?" Ginny asked her playfully, sitting up. "You want to see me? You want to see Ginny?" Fleur handed Victoire over, and Ginny leaned against her mother's chair, holding the baby on her lap. Victoire immediately seized a hank of Ginny's hair, entranced.

"You were right," Fleur said to Molly. "She 'as red 'air!"

"You're hilarious," Ginny said, wincing and disentangling herself from Victoire's grip.

Molly chuckled, sipping her tea, and set her cup aside. "Here, Victoire, you come to me," she said, taking her up again. "Leave your poor auntie alone."

Ginny wrinkled her nose. "That sounds weird," she said to Fleur. "She can just call me Ginny, all right?"

Fleur winked at her.

"All right, Weasley women, get together," said Arthur. He and Bill had reappeared in the kitchen doorway.

"Weasley women?" Ginny demanded indignantly, as Fleur and Molly laughed.

Arthur was carrying a large, old-fashioned Muggle camera. "Yes, all of you, now! I've finally gotten this to work, and I want to test it out."

"Oh, Arthur, not now," Molly said. "I don't look—"

"Come on, Mum," said Ginny. "It's just us."

"And we are celebrating your 'omecoming—we should 'ave a peecture," Fleur insisted. She got out of her chair and knelt beside Molly's, putting an arm around her. Ginny tucked herself in front of her mother's knees and beamed.

Molly seemed to recognize that she was not being given a choice and adjusted Victoire to a more comfortable position in her arms. "All right," she said. "Go on, then." She smiled gamely, cheek to cheek with Fleur.

"Victoire," Bill said, trying to get her attention. "Victoire, where's Daddy?"

Victoire turned her big blue eyes on her father just as Arthur took the photograph.

* * *

><p>Teehee. Molly's fine! YAY GRANDMA MOLLY! :D<p> 


	11. Wartime Passion, 1999

13 August 1999

Ginny opened the back door of the Burrow. Harry was just behind her, grateful to escape the blazing heat and carrying a bag of groceries for the family dinner that evening.

"Hello!" Ginny called, taking the bag from him and setting it on the counter. "Anyone home?"

There was a sudden thud and a "shh!" from the parlor. Harry frowned at Ginny, who shrugged. They went together to the doorway, where they saw Ron and Hermione sitting beside each other on the sofa.

Hermione wore a very grave expression.

"Everything all right?" Ginny asked, frowning slightly. "Where is everybody?"

"Out," Ron said shortly.

"All right, Ron?" Harry asked, with great trepidation.

"We need to talk," Hermione said seriously. She looked as though she had been reading the newspaper; it was folded in her lap. She gestured to the chairs opposite the couch. "Sit down, you two."

Harry and Ginny exchanged nervous glances. What could possibly have Hermione and Ron so terribly upset? Harry chose his seat and sat down, looking anxiously between Ron and Hermione.

"What's going on?" Ginny asked, sounding wary.

Hermione leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and let out a sigh. "You two haven't been honest with us," she said. "And I have to say, it's…it's…well…"

"It's pretty disgusting," said Ron harshly.

Harry felt heat flood his face, and he stole a glance at Ginny, who had gone quite still.

"I mean, Ginny," Hermione said, shaking her head in disbelief. "We've been friends for—how long? Everything we've shared, and now I find you've kept this secret from me? How—how am I supposed to—?"

"Forget friends," Ron growled, with a dirty look at Harry. "How about siblings? You're my sister, and you've been lying all this time?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Ginny bristle. He opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione turned on him.

"Oh, don't think I've forgotten about _you_," she said rather viciously. "I can't believe you'd ever—"

"I could kill you," Ron said simply, fingering his wand in a way that made Harry shut his mouth immediately.

"Ron!" Ginny was scarlet with anger. "Just what is this, then?" she demanded. "If this is about me and Harry, then—" she faced Hermione, looking furious, "—as I've told Ron about a _thousand times_, it's not your business what we do!"

"Mate, if this is about last Friday, I swear," Harry stammered. "That wasn't—we didn't mean to—" Ginny silenced him with a glare. All Harry could do was stare weakly between the three of them. "I—I don't really know what's going on—"

"Oh, you don't know?" Hermione asked furiously. "Really? I have a hard time believing that, Harry." She crossed her arms and legs tightly, looking pointedly away from him. The newspaper still sat in her lap.

"I could kill you," Ron told Harry again, who turned white. "And I've got my brothers to back me up."

Ginny, however, was no longer listening to Ron or Harry. She was staring closely, shrewdly at Hermione, who was avoiding her gaze. "Hermione," she said.

Her tone was no longer angry—it was curious—inquisitive. Hermione would not look at her.

"Hermione," Ginny said again. Hermione just folded her arms tighter and looked in a different direction, but—and Harry saw it, this time—the tiniest flicker of a smile was forcing its way onto her face.

"Oh, bloody hell, Hermione!" Ron said, throwing his hands up, and she dissolved into helpless laughter, keeling over sideways onto the couch. "You're useless!" Hermione reached up, still breathless with laughter, and smacked the side of his head.

"What—what's going on?" Harry asked, his voice returning to its normal, un-squeaking level.

Ginny got up, shaking her head at Ron and Hermione, who were both laughing hysterically, and snatched Hermione's newspaper. She shook it open and held it up for Harry to see—it was the _Evening Prophet_, and smack in the middle of the front page was a large, black and white photograph, in which Harry and Ginny were walking down High Street in Hogsmeade. Between them was a chubby, black-haired one-year-old. He was taking tentative, wobbly steps on his fat little legs, holding onto one of Ginny's hands and one of Harry's.

The headline read: WARTIME PASSION, with a subheading: _Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley (spotted earlier this week in Hogsmeade) reveal to the world the fruits of their love, torn asunder by war and reunited once again._

"Rita Skeeter," Harry and Ginny groaned simultaneously. Hermione gave a weak giggle; she lay on her back on the sofa, paralyzed with elation. Ron was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

"I like the bit about the 'fruits of your love,'" he said to Harry. "Like you two are a couple of flowering shrubs."

"Andromeda's going to kill me," Harry laughed weakly.

"And _I'm_ going to kill _Ron_," Ginny said loudly, standing up. "What the bloody hell was all that for, you—"

"Oh, Ginny," Hermione said, sitting up. "We couldn't resist—and besides, it was my idea. It really is a cute picture of you and Teddy," she wheedled.

Ginny scowled, but sat down again, crossing her arms tightly and staring murderously at Ron. Harry just grinned, tossing the newspaper aside. He sat back, much more at ease now.

Ron, however, sat up suddenly and frowned at Harry. "Hang on…what happened last Friday night?" he asked suspiciously.

Harry raised his eyebrows innocently. "No idea," he said.

"Shut up, Ron," said Hermione as she tore the photograph from the newspaper. She passed it to Ginny, who was still glaring nastily at Ron. "Here, Ginny—your fruits."

* * *

><p>Happy birthday HonoraryDAMember! This is a photo she suggested. It's a bit different from the others, but I thought it was cute. :)<p> 


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